


Painting the Past

by mayamaia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:24:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayamaia/pseuds/mayamaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk at night, with heavy thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting the Past

**Author's Note:**

> First published in May 2013 in Kuryakin File #32. Yes that was me, there was a mixup and Lisa used part of my email address for my pseudonym.

It wasn't the sort of evening that lent itself to lethargy, as Illya Kuryakin measured such things. The air was warm and sweet, not enough to sap energy, but enough to grant a sense of ease. If he had found himself in a city, he would be prowling the streets, memorizing its quaint and beautiful corners, making friends with its people.

Instead, he and Napoleon languished in a safe house, a scant 10 yards from the sands of a cool beach. The sea was restless with lapping waves, and Illya was restless with itching heels.

Kuryakin strolled over to Solo's recumbent form where he lounged in an overstuffed chair and casually kicked at the man's ankle. Illya gave no reaction to his partner's annoyance, only a curt, "Get up. Let's take a walk." Napoleon gave in without further complaint, audible or otherwise.

Strictly speaking, the agents' safety was not guaranteed outside the immediate vicinity of the beach house. But as their path stretched down the shore, below the tide line and unlit except by algae and stars, the knot between Illya's shoulders began to slowly unravel.

"Any better, Illya?" his fellow shadow asked.

"Enough, perhaps." A yard passed beneath them before he continued, "I'd rather erase the incident, but can settle for leaving it behind."

Napoleon hummed at that. "No, forgetfulness rarely is erasure. People just paint something better and easier over it instead, so the next time they pass it by, the image is unclear or the new one takes all their attention."

Solo's eyes drifted to the bright patch of his partner's hair, almost the only thing Earthly that was brighter than the dark sands. He couldn't count the sparkling phosphorescence of the waves, almost unreal with their eerie glow.

Kuryakin spoke tightly. "She was in your arms only hours ago, I can't see why you should be so easy and unaffected by this."

Napoleon shook his head, not thinking that his partner would not see, but then Illya would see the gesture even in blindness. "Only one of us should be uneasy at a time, don't you think?"

"It is my duty in this partnership to be nauseatingly practical." Illya's voice was rich with bitter notes. "It does not feel natural in this instance."

"Perhaps that's because you were so practical when she was alive. You wasted it all and now you have no anger left." Napoleon's voice took on a hint of sadness, a hint of warmth. "My memories of her are full and bright, painted with broad strokes in fiery colors. If I let myself cover them with her death, all I can do is dim their beauty. But what recourse do you have?"

"I am sorry, Napoleon."

"No you're not, Illya," Solo said emphatically.

It was Illya's turn to nod invisibly. "No. I'm not. I am glad that I saved you. But I do wish there had been another way to do so." He stared into the glowing surf, each shining wave invisibly painting the sands with salt, and tried to remember what Angelique had looked like.

But he could only build a caricature of bleached hair and mocking lips, without animation.


End file.
